But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth,
On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the
Earth;
But for man in this world no springtide e’er
returns
To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!
Two favourites hath Time—the pyramids of
Nile,
And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle;
As the breeze o’er the seas, where the halcyon
has its nest,
Thus Time o’er Egypt’s tombs and the temples
of the West!
The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom,
Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the
tomb;
But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast—
These temples of forgotten gods—these relics
of the past!
Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the
Dane—
The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain—
Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman
Peers—
And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of
later years!
How many different rites have these gray old temples
known!
To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles
of stone!
What terror and what error, what gleams of love and
truth,
Have flashed from these walls since the world was
in its youth?
Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was
gone,
As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;
And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old
temples drunk,
And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the
monk.
Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred
wine,
And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics
from the shrine,
And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than
the East,
And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of
the priest.
Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper
bell,
Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit’s
cell;
And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good,
For the cross o’er the moss of the pointed summit
stood.
There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth
impart
To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb
to the heart;
While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples
last,
Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the
past!
OVER THE SEA.
Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing
Over
the sea?
Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing
Like
lambs on the lea?—
Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing
Allureth
ye?
Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating—
What
troubleth thee?
There where the waves from the fathomless water come
greeting,
Wild
with their glee!
Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating,
Over
the sea!
Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying
Down
by the sea?
There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing
Child-like
and free,
What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying,
There
chaineth ye?